A Simple Twist of Fate
by Cemetery Mink
Summary: What if Starling was the baddie and Lecter the FBI Agent?
1. Lecter

Disclaimer: All of the characters found within this story are the property of Thomas Harris. Much of the dialogue and various descriptions have been taken from the novel The Silence of the Lambs. In order to make this story possible, I have messed with the timeline, ages, and character of certain individuals, and there will be inconsistencies in dates, facts and events (Hey, it's an alternate universe!). So sorry, and remember-if you want to flame me, all you have to do is e-mail! :)  
  
This one is for Paranoid_Butterfly. Mel, I'm so sorry for not being able to mail you…I've been having some problems that needed a lot of fixing…I hope you understand. Enjoy.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Behavioural Science, the FBI section that deals with serial murder is on the bottom floor of the Academy Building at Quantico, half-buried in the earth. Dr. Hannibal Lecter reached it after a brisk walk from Hogan's Alley on the firing range. He was clean, handsome and immaculate, despite the fact that he had spent the last hour and a half diving to the ground in simulation of an arrest involving firepower.  
  
  
  
He is alone in the outer office and takes this time to run his left hand through short brown hair, attempting to restore it to some semblance of order. He knows he looks good even when rumpled. His hands bore no smell of gunpowder, for although Section Chief Mapp's summons said NOW, he had still found the time to change from the standard FBI-issue windbreaker and sweats to a dark three piece suit.   
  
  
  
Ardelia Mapp sits in worn leather easy chair in one of the cluttered suites of offices that line either side of the basement corridor. A normally beautiful woman of Jamaican and Gullah ancestry, she appeared to have lost some weight, the collar of her shirt loose on her Nefertiti neck, and dark circles were beginning to form under her expressive brown eyes, slightly reddened from the lack of sleep.  
  
  
  
Everyone who could read the papers knew Behavioural Science was catching hell.  
  
  
  
Mapp looked up from the file she was reading, and Lecter knew that is was his own. A quick glance downwards confirmed it.  
  
  
  
"Lecter, Hannibal, good morning." She said.  
  
  
  
"Good morning," his smile was nothing less than mild. They looked at each other for a few moments of uncomfortable silence, before Mapp cleared her throat.  
  
  
  
"Let's get straight to the point now, shall we? A job came up, and I thought about you," she said. "It's actually more of an interesting errand. Have a seat." She regarded him with dark eyes before she resumed speaking. "You wrote down on your application that you want to work for Behavioural Science when you graduated from the academy, is that correct?"  
  
  
  
"Yes."  
  
  
  
"That was eight months ago, yes?"  
  
  
  
"You already know that from my file, Ma'am."  
  
  
  
"It IS in here, if you must know. The file also says that you have a lot of forensic and medical know-how, but no law enforcement background. And you do know we look for a minimum of six years."  
  
  
  
"I do."  
  
  
  
"I see, and you thought that what you had was enough, didn't you?"  
  
  
  
"Perhaps."   
  
  
  
"Very well, then let me tell you what you DO have, Dr. Lecter. A double major in psychology and criminology, both summa cum laude from Johns Hopkins, and a medical degree from the same school, summa cum laude, number one in the bar exam. Internship and residency training at Johns Hopkins and Maryland Misericordia, have I left anything out?"  
  
  
  
"That would be all of it."  
  
  
  
"Yes. Quite excellent credentials, I might add, but not enough. That's why you were turned down."  
  
  
  
"So they say."  
  
  
  
"You had written me about coming here. Why?"  
  
  
  
"I wanted to."  
  
  
  
"I see. Whimsy, was it?" Lecter lets out another benign smile. "You had a promising career in medicine, come from one of the wealthiest Baltimore families, and it also says here, that if you weren't accepted, you would proceed to train in Psychiatry. Well, here you are, all dressed up, but do you know where you're gonna go, hmm, Special Agent Lecter?" she indicated his expensive suit and shoes with a delicate gesture of her small brown hand, nails unpainted and cut short.  
  
  
  
"I have a general idea." His wording was carefully neutral.  
  
  
  
"What do you know about VI-CAP?"  
  
  
  
"It's the acronym for Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. As far as my knowledge goes, you aren't operational yet. Are you?"  
  
  
  
Mapp spreads out her arms as a Catholic would do while praying the Lord's prayer, and said, "All we've done so far is manage to develop a questionnaire. It applies to all the known serial murderers on modern times. There's a section for investigators, one for surviving victims, if there are any. The blue is for the killer to answer if he will, and the pink is a series of questions an examiner asks the killer, getting his reactions as well as his answers." She hands him a thick manila envelope, and when he opens the flap, in it is a sheaf of papers. He takes a few out and flips through it.   
  
  
  
Lecter knows she hasn't told him all there is to tell, and puts the papers back into the envelope, waiting patiently for her to resume speaking.  
  
  
  
"Do you spook easily, Lecter?"  
  
  
  
"No. I never have."  
  
  
  
"Or not yet. See, we've tried to interview the thirty-two known serial murderers we have in custody, to build up a database for psychological profiling. Most of them went along with it, but the one we want most, we haven't been able to get. I want you to go after her tomorrow in the Baltimore asylum."  
  
  
  
Hannibal Lecter felt a hint of dread coupled with a foreboding of imminent change.  
  
  
  
"Who's the subject?"  
  
  
  
"The psychiatrist, Clarice Starling."  
  
  
  
A brief silence follows the name, always, in any civilized gathering.  
  
  
  
Lecter stared at Mapp unflinchingly, having gone very, very still. "The doctor of death…"  
  
  
  
"Yes."  
  
  
  
"Well, alright."  
  
  
  
"Aren't you even wondering why I picked you?"  
  
  
  
"No."  
  
  
  
"Why not?"  
  
  
  
"I know you're waist deep in the Buffalo Bill case at the moment. The same old story-not enough warm bodies. Are you in a hurry?"  
  
  
  
"Why would you think that?"  
  
  
  
"You said you wanted me in Baltimore tomorrow."  
  
  
  
"Ah, yes. Nothing's up with the current case. Thought I might take a chance with what Starling might know."  
  
  
  
'Ahhh, and out jumps the truth when you least expect it…what she really wants is information from Starling. Very well, I shall have to play her game to its distasteful end'. The thought flashes so briefly through his mind he barely has time to register it.  
  
  
  
"If she balks on me, would you want a psychological profile to go with the report?"  
  
  
  
"Do as you wish. But I'd rather you not. See, I'm buried under a ton of inaccessible-patient evaluations on Dr. Starling, and they're all as different as night and day."  
Mapp leaned back into her chair and steepled her hands under her chin. "This is really fucked up, I mean, Starling's a psychiatrist, she writes for the psychiatric journals herself-amazing stuff-yet it's never about her or her case. She pretends to go along with the hospital director, Martin, once in some tests-sitting around strapped to an ECG machine looking at some wreck pictures-then Starling published first what she'd learned about Martin and made a fool out of her. The only people she responds to are other psychiatrists seeking help in fields unrelated to her case. If she doesn't respond to you at all, then all I want is the local colour, and watch for the press coming in and out."  
  
  
  
"By press, I assume you mean the supermarket press?"  
  
  
  
"Look here Lecter, never assume, cause if you assume it makes an-"  
  
  
  
"Ass out of U and ME. Yes, I'm quite familiar with that, thank you," he finished for her.  
  
  
  
"I'll have enough of that, Lecter. I want your full attention now, are you listening to me?" he remains impassive yet gives a short nod, as if to say 'go on.' Mapp feels curiously inferior to this rookie, eight years younger than the forty she has spent on this earth. "Be careful with Clarice Starling. Dr. Martin will go over the procedures with you, and do not even think about deviating from it, I don't care how good your reasons are. If Starling talks to you at all, then it's because she's got the kind of curiosity that will make a snake look into a bird's nest before eating the little ones. Do not tell her anything specific about yourself. You know what she did to Will Graham?"   
  
  
  
"Yes. I read about it in the papers."  
  
  
  
"She gutted Will when he caught up with her. You remember the Red Dragon case last year? Starling turned Dolarhyde against Will and his entire family. Will's face looks like Picasso fucking drew him, thanks to Starling. She tore a nurse up in the asylum. Just do what you gotta do and never ever forget what she is."  
  
  
  
"And what is she?" he stands up, preparing to leave."  
  
  
  
"I know that she's a monster. Beyond that, nobody can say for sure."  
  
  
  
"Well, we'll see about that, shan't we?"  
  
  
  
When he left, Ardelia Mapp stared hard and long at the door, feeling for the first time that she might have made a grievous mistake.  
  
  
  
**  
  
  
You know the drill, ladies and gentlemen. There's a nice little box at the bottom where you can write your reviews, suggestion, comments, flames (preferably not), and anything else that comes to mind.  
  
Ta,  
  
Tailgunner.  



	2. Starling

Disclaimer: All of the characters found within this story are the property of Thomas Harris. Some of the dialogue and various descriptions have been taken from the novels Hannibal and The Silence of the Lambs. In order to make this story possible, I have messed with the timeline, ages, and character of certain individuals, and there will be inconsistencies in dates, facts and events (Hey, it's an alternate universe!). So sorry, and remember-if you want to flame me, all you have to do is e-mail! :)  
  
  
**  
  
  
Dr. Ruth Martin, fifty-eight, administrator of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane walks with Hannibal Lecter down along the corridor, stealing surreptitious glances at him whenever she thought he was not looking. He, of course, was always aware as to what the older woman was doing, and tried not to pay heed to it. Although nothing would have given him greater pleasure than to tell her off, he could not, in the interest of politeness and as a result of the excellent breeding he had as a child.   
  
  
  
Clarice Starling's case is one of the most unusual in the annals of criminal history. Female serial killers are almost unheard of, even in this day and age. Those that do, often have an accomplice to help them in their crimes, usually male. Starling not only operated alone, but also plotted out every single detail of the murders herself. As he walked down the hall with Martin, he mentally replayed everything he had learned about the woman he was about to see.   
  
  
  
In more ways than one, their educational background was very much the same. Starling had been educated in some of the finest schools in the country, and both she and Lecter had gone to Johns Hopkins. Both had graduated summa cum laude, both had trained at the Maryland Misericordia, and both had topped the medical bar exam. In personal backgrounds however, he remembered that Starling, too, was an orphan at the age of eight, two years older than him when he lost his own parents. That was where the similarities ended.   
  
  
  
Unlike Lecter whose affluent relatives in the United States took on the job of raising and educating him, Starling had to work hard for her own support and education. Born in Greenbrier County, West Virginia, she came from purely working-class roots. From the class of people that others condescendingly refer to as blue-collar Appalachians. Like Lecter, she also had a promising career in medicine and Psychiatry but threw it all away when she had gone off the deep end and killed seventeen people over a six-month period. Some of them, by decapitation, and still others by fire. The reason for which nobody had been able to figure out, just as they never knew what prompted Lecter to join the FBI in the first place.   
  
  
  
"Before we get to her cell, there are some rules I would like to go over with you first, Agent. Number one, do not touch the glass, do not go near the glass, or even pass her anything other than soft paper. Items are to be passed through the sliding food carrier, and do not accept anything she might pass to you through the food carrier."   
  
  
  
Martin was a few paces ahead of him, and he took this time to take a good look around, one glance enough to permanently imprint his surroundings into the memory palace. When they reached Starling's cell, she made a small flourish with her hand, as a magician would when presenting an elaborate illusion.  
  
  
  
"Well, Agent Lecter, here we are. May I present to you, Dr. Clarice Starling…"   
  
  
  
Starling was an undeniably beautiful woman, with long red hair, almost titian, really, and pale porcelain skin. She was reclining on the lone cot in her cell, perusing the Italian edition of Vogue. At thirty years old, Clarice Starling always looked her age, and always made that age look good, even in standard asylum gear.  
  
  
  
"Thank you, Dr. Martin, but I think I'll take it from here," he said.  
  
  
  
Martin seemed uncertain. "Actually, I was hoping I could be of some help?"  
  
  
  
"No thank you, madam." With that, he turned his back to her, somewhat rudely which was so unlike his nature and approached the Plexiglass.  
  
  
  
"Dr. Starling." she looked up from her reading.  
  
  
  
Lecter thought he heard a distant humming in his ears, but it was only his blood pulsing through the veins.  
  
  
  
" My name is Hannibal Lecter. May I speak with you?"  
  
  
  
Dr. Starling closes her eyes as if pondering this for a moment, her left hand drifting to the floor, the magazine lightly scraping against the grey floor. Taking her sweet time, she stood up and walked up to Lecter, looking straight at him, unblinking.  
  
  
  
"Good morning." Her voice is mellifluous, with perhaps a slight metallic rasp beneath it from disuse.  
  
  
  
He could see that she was slender, her soft curves proportionate and well formed. Beneath the loose drab attire, he saw a lean and wiry strength in her, much like his own.   
Clarice Starling's eyes are blue and instead of reflecting light in tiny pinpoints, they seem to absorb it. In the dim light of the cell, behind her eyes seem to be endless night.  
  
  
  
"I know who you are, Agent."  
  
  
  
"You do?"  
  
  
  
"Why of course…" Starling moved closer to him, and Lecter could feel the hairs on both his arms rising, sticking to the sleeves of his shirt. "We both went to Hopkins together, although I never walked amongst your class of high-society friends. You were also two years ahead of me. How old are you now? It's been ages since I last saw you driving around the campus in that splendid little Jag of yours."  
  
  
  
"I'm thirty-two, Dr."  
  
  
  
"Ah…and I'm only thirty. Tell me, what made you decide to be one of the…F…B…I…? Indulge me, Agent Lecter, or is it doctor?"  
  
  
  
"This is official business, so it's to be Agent."  
  
  
  
"I see."  
  
  
  
"Doctor, we have a problem with Psychological profiling, and I was hoping you could help us…"  
  
  
  
"By 'US' I presume you mean Ardelia Mapp and all the apes at Behavioural Sciences. How did you ever end up with that bunch of primates?"  
  
  
  
"I'm on loan from another department, doctor."  
  
  
  
"Which is?"  
  
  
  
"Forensics."  
  
  
  
She smiles. "My kind of game…"  
  
  
  
"Would you like to see my credentials?"  
  
  
  
"No need. Just pass that little folder you have there under your arm to me." Lecter does as she says, using the sliding food carrier. She flips though it, her expression one of disgust and pure scorn.  
  
  
  
"Oh, Agent Lecter. Do you really believe you can dissect me with that blunt little tool? It's going to take more than that pile of rubbish to get the remotest bit of interest out of me. Now, on to you."  
  
  
  
"Me." He says it matter-of-factly, not betraying his bemusement.   
  
  
  
"Yes you. Tell me about yourself, Agent Lecter."  
  
  
  
"Not unless you answer that questionnaire, doctor."  
  
  
  
"Really? Do I have to?" she pouts as if she is a child, obviously mocking him. "What if I said no?"  
  
  
  
"Then I'll leave."  
  
  
  
"Good. You'll do that, won't you?"  
  
  
  
"Yes." He turns around and starts walking.  
  
  
  
"Agent Lecter? Before you go, tell me something." He returns to her cell.  
  
  
  
"About what, doctor?"  
  
  
  
"About Buffalo Bill." Hannibal Lecter finally saw why Mapp had sent him to Starling, yet even so, he betrayed no knowledge of it, facial expression remaining blank.  
  
  
  
"What do you want to know, doctor?"  
  
  
  
"Why the name Buffalo Bill? There has to be some good explanation, no?"  
  
  
  
"It started as a cheap joke in Kansas city homicide."  
  
  
  
"Expound, please."  
  
  
  
"When they found the first bodies, one of the deputies remarked 'This one likes to skin his humps.'"  
  
  
  
"You're right."  
  
  
  
"About what?"  
  
  
  
"It is a cheap joke. Tell me more about the victims."  
  
  
  
"Perhaps next time, doctor."  
  
  
  
"Agent Lecter, there will BE no next time. We both know that."  
  
  
  
"I promise that I'll bring the case file on my next visit."  
  
  
  
"Yes, you'll do that, won't you? And Agent Lecter, a little bit of advice regarding those psychiatric profiles of Mapp's…a census taker once tried to test me. I…think I'll leave the rest to your imagination." Her pink tongue darts out to touch the middle of her upper lip.  
  
  
  
**  
  
  
  
Lecter left the dark hospital basement feeling as if a fly was buzzing around the space inside of his head. The cool air felt good to him, after the suffocating smells of the dungeon. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun was casting its last rays over the tired concrete jungle. He walked over to an unmarked SUV, where an older man lay dozing at the wheel, jacket off and tie loosened. Lecter walked over to the driver's side and tapped the other man's shoulder, causing him to let out a short yell.  
  
  
  
"Jesus fucking Christ, Lecter. You scared the bajeesus out of me!"  
  
  
  
"Serves you right, Jack for sleeping on the job."  
  
  
  
"Yeah, whatever. So, whaddup?"  
  
  
  
"Well, You were right about her."  
  
  
  
"What?"  
  
  
  
"You told me some things about Starling on our way here, remember Jackie-boy? Or has your alcohol soaked brain forgotten everything?"  
  
  
  
"Oh yeah…I guess I remember some of it." Unlike the younger, more dapper Lecter, Jack Crawford was in his mid-forties; grey haired and exhausted. Decades of disillusionment had snuffed out the fire in his eyes. He now was a living zombie, going through the normal numbing routines of existence. His last partner had been killed in a drug bust gone wrong, and now he was stuck with Lecter and could see the same thing happening to him as well.  
  
  
  
"Glad to see that a few of your brain cells managed to survive the deluge of whiskey and alka-seltzer you've been pouring down your throat for the past few years."  
  
  
  
"So, what did you mean by me being right about starling? She's a first class loony-toony, ain't she?"  
  
  
  
"Actually, she seemed…fine."  
  
  
  
"Fine in the head, or damned fine-looking?"  
  
  
  
"Both."  
  
  
  
"Fucking hell, don't let Mapp hear you say that."  
  
  
  
"I won't. Move over, Jack. I'll be driving now."  
  
  
  
"You gonna be seeing your girl soon?"  
  
  
  
"Maybe. She's at the Philharmonic."  
  
  
  
"I'd love to see her sometime."  
  
  
  
"If you're really good, maybe I'll even let you hold her hand. How's Bella?"  
  
  
  
The smile on Crawford's face instantly disappeared at the mention of his wife. "She's fine, Lecter. Juuuust fine." He leaned his head back into the passenger seat headrest as Lecter started the engine.  
  
  
  
**  
  
  
  
You know the drill, ladies and gentlemen. There's a nice little box at the bottom where you can write your reviews, suggestion, comments, flames (preferably not), and anything else that comes to mind.  
  
Ta,  
  
Tailgunner.  



	3. Barney

Disclaimer: All of the characters found within this story are the property of Thomas Harris. Some of the dialogue has been taken from the novel Red Dragon. In order to make this story possible, I have messed with the timeline, ages, and character of certain individuals, and there will be inconsistencies in dates, facts and events (Hey, it's an alternate universe!). So sorry, and remember-if you want to flame me, all you have to do is e-mail! :)  
  
  
**  
  
  
  
"So, How did your interview with Starling go?"  
  
  
  
"As well as could be." It was nine in the morning and Hannibal Lecter had once again reported to the office of Ardelia Mapp, Behavioural Sciences Section Chief, and Mapp was interrogating him from behind her aircraft-carrier of a desk, piled high with stacks of papers and documentation.  
  
  
  
"She beat you up, didn't she?"  
  
  
  
"Chewed and spat me out to dry." Mapp arches a brow.  
  
  
  
"Come again, Agent?"  
  
  
  
"Ma'am, may I inquire about something?"  
  
  
  
"Fire away, Lecter."   
  
  
  
"The information on the file on Starling which you gave me is lacking."  
  
  
  
"What do you mean lacking? It's the kind of standard info you would find on a typical criminal's file." Mapp takes an unsharpened pencil from a drawer and twirls it around her fingers.  
  
  
  
"Well, yes, but it's also the kind of information you are most likely to find in who's who. It is completely insufficient from what is needed in order to provide a better understanding on the doctor."   
  
  
  
"And why would she be on who's who?"  
  
  
  
"That's beside the point, which is how come there is very little information on Starling's past? It just says here that she was orphaned at the age of eight…and that's about it."  
  
  
  
"You want more information on Starling?" Mapp leaned across the desk.  
  
  
  
"Yes," he said.  
  
  
  
"Then I suggest you get it yourself." If Lecter was taken aback by Mapp's brusque almost rude behaviour at the mention of Starling, he does not show it but rises stiffly and does not say a word. His maroon eyes darken and he looks very dangerous. Mapp swallows audibly before dismissing him.  
  
  
  
"Carry on, Lecter. I expect you to report here at 0800 tomorrow."  
  
  
  
He does not say anything as he goes out the door, surrounded by an aura akin to a thundercloud.  
  
  
  
**  
  
  
  
"So, this is your place." It is the voice of Jack Crawford, definitely impressed, even though intoxicated. We see him and Lecter inside the small yet sumptuously appointed foyer inside somebody's two-storey apartment.  
  
  
  
"My abode, Jack. The proper term for it is my abode, domicile, residence, dwelling. I would very much appreciate it if you saved your teenage slang for the streets."  
  
  
  
"Whatever, Lecter. I say you're letting Starling get to you too much. She's bad news, boy. You need to get off more often. Speaking of getting off, where the hell is your broad, anyway?"   
  
  
  
Lecter has taken off his coat and hung it behind the door, walking into the living room where he pours himself a glass of brandy before flopping down onto one of the maroon sofas and lighting a cigarette. He tips his head back, revealing the vulnerable jugular and exhales hard, watching the smoke dissipate in the cool air of the room.  
  
  
  
"Crawford, sit down before you hurt yourself. I would thank you not to address her that way."  
  
  
  
"Well, don't mind if I do. Sit down, I mean."  
  
  
  
Jack enters the living room, but instead of sitting down, he also pours himself some brandy from the crystal decanter beside Lecter and takes a look at the pictures placed on the mantelpiece. One of them in particular catches his fancy. It is a watercolour of a teenage girl, sitting on a chair all alone in a bare room, playing a cello. The artist seems to have captured the moment perfectly. Her brown eyes even seem to twinkle with a bit of mirth, as if sharing a private joke with whoever painted the picture.  
  
  
  
"This is a damned fine piece of art, my friend." Lecter raises his head from the back of the couch.   
  
  
  
"Which one?"  
  
  
  
"This here painting of the girl. Where did you get it? She's really pretty, too."  
  
  
  
Hannibal cocks his head to one side, regarding Jack with hooded maroon eyes. "I painted it."  
  
  
  
"Bull-shit you did. I didn't know you could paint."  
  
  
  
"I can do a lot of things, Jackie."  
  
  
  
"You sure can." He peered closer at the painting. "Nice hair. Red an' all. Is this what they call titian?"  
  
  
  
"No. Starling's hair is a more precise example of titian, actually."  
  
  
  
"She looks kinda like Molly Ringwald…or maybe Melissa Gilbert."  
  
  
  
"Who, Starling?" Lecter said, amused.  
  
  
  
"No, boyo. The chick in the painting."  
  
  
  
"Well, I'm glad to hear that you approve of my taste in women." He lied through his teeth. As if he could really give a flying fuck what Jack Crawford thought.  
  
  
  
"No shit! THIS is your broad?" Lecter winced once again at Crawford's use of tavern language. "Isn't she kind of young for you?" Crawford eyed him suspiciously. Lecter gave him a weak smile.  
  
  
  
"She was eighteen when I painted that. She's four years older than me, Jack."  
  
  
  
"That's a relief."  
  
  
  
"And why is that?"  
  
  
  
"Wouldn't want to bring you in for child abuse or something. Them poor innocents."  
  
  
  
"Trust me, Jack, she is neither poor nor innocent." Lecter grinned devilishly.  
  
  
  
"That good, huh?"  
  
  
  
"I'm not telling…"  
  
  
  
Crawford then sank beside Lecter and raised his glass up in the air. "Glad at least one of us is getting some." He took a swig, downing half the contents of the glass. "To Bella."  
  
  
  
"To Bella," Lecter echoed. "How is she, really, Jack?"  
  
  
  
Crawford looked at him, slightly bleary-eyed. "The truth?"  
  
  
  
"Yeah, I want the truth."  
  
  
  
"Truth is, the fucking quacks say she doesn't have long to live. They give her six months, Hannibal."  
  
  
  
"I'm so sorry about Bella, Jack."  
  
  
  
"Don't be sorry. You didn't have nothing to do with it. Besides, you got more important things to worry about. What did the guru say about your interview with Starling?"  
  
  
  
Hannibal put his glass down on the side table at his right and poured more brandy into it before taking another sip. "Nothing much. In fact, she didn't want to talk about Starling at all. Why do you suppose that is?"  
  
  
  
"Didn't you pay any attention at all to her trial a few years back?"  
  
  
  
"A few years back I was sunning myself in the countryside in a little Italian villa."  
  
  
  
"It was a fucking madhouse, my friend."  
  
  
  
"Figuratively?"  
  
  
  
"Literally!! I mean, the goddamn DA said that they had enough evidence to convict her of at LEAST ten counts of murder, and she beat it all on an insanity plea."  
  
  
  
"She was advised to plead insanity? Tell me, and don't lie Jack, or I'll know."  
  
  
  
Crawford looked sheepish. "Actually, the courts found her guilty. Dr. Starling did not plead." Lecter seemed to be digesting this when his cellphone rang.  
  
  
  
"Lecter here." His face was unreadable. "Uh-huh. Yeah. You'll be coming on over then? Yes, thanks very much. I'll be here waiting."  
  
  
  
"Who was that? Your girlfriend? I get to hold her hand, right?" he teased.  
  
  
  
Lecter smiled, "All good things to those who wait, Jack, but I regret to inform you that the caller was not in the least bit female."   
  
  
  
Crawford looked crestfallen. "No? Pity, that. Who was he, then?" he straightened up and looked at Lecter.  
  
  
  
"An old friend. I'm having him over for dinner. Do you mind?"   
  
  
  
"Naw. Hey, where ya going?" Lecter had stood and gone out the room. Jack sank back into the cushions and closed his eyes. "Son of a bitch." Lecter pops his dark sleek head back into the room.  
  
  
  
"What did you say, Jack?"  
  
  
  
"Nothing. Who's your 'old friend' anyway?"  
  
  
  
"Someone I knew back from medical school." Crawford looked puzzled.  
  
  
  
"Medical school? Oh yeah, you're a doctor too, right? Hot damn. Why'd you become a Fed, anyway?"  
  
  
  
"I don't know," Lecter shrugged. "Perhaps it was a moment of temporary insanity."  
  
  
  
"We have all the nuts we need, boyo. Especially what with you and Starling having all these conversations."  
  
  
  
"Conversations, Jack?"  
  
  
  
"Come on, Lecter. It's no secret that she talks to you. Now, the guru doesn't want you to go back to Starling, does she?"  
  
  
  
"No."  
  
  
  
"You want to hear what I think?"  
  
  
  
"Do I have a choice?" he said sarcastically.  
  
  
  
Crawford pretended not to notice. "In my opinion, you should definitely pursue this. You're the one she talks to, Lecter. Use it to your advantage."  
  
  
  
"Whatever you say, Jack," he took the crystal decanter still half-filled with brandy, or half empty of brandy, depending on your perspective and uncharacteristically took a swig from the decanter itself.  
  
  
  
"Whoah, there, boy." Crawford said. "Are you drinking yourself over Starling now?"  
  
  
  
  
"That's absurd," Lecter said, but the look in his eyes said otherwise.  
  
  
  
Crawford shook his head. "This is bad, boyo. Really bad. You don't want Clarice Starling in your head. Trust me on that one…" he let his last words drift off, but Hannibal was staring blindly at the fireplace, mutely watching the yellow-orange flames leap and play against the soot covered bricks. Three loud knocks coming from the door distracted him from wherever his thoughts had brought him to and Lecter stood up and walked briskly to the door, opening it quickly. Outside stood a giant of a man, dressed casually in jeans, a white shirt and denim jacket. He had something tucked underneath his arm. It looked to Crawford like a file of some sort. Lecter invited the man in and they shook hands. No hugs, no nothing. Just a simple handshake.  
  
  
  
"Hello, Barney." Lecter took the file from him,  
  
  
  
"Hey yourself, Han," the black man said.  
  
  
  
"Come on in. I haven't quite gotten around to cooking anything yet. Perhaps you'd like to help me?"  
  
  
  
"No thanks, doc. I grabbed me some McDonald's on my way here."  
  
  
  
"All right. Jack, this is an acquaintance of mine from Johns Hopkins."  
  
  
  
"Hi," Crawford said. "My name's Jack Crawford, but you can call me Jack."  
  
  
  
"Mine's Barney."   
  
  
  
"Just plain Barney?" Crawford said.  
  
  
  
"Just plain Barney."   
  
  
  
"Are you a doctor, too?"  
  
  
  
"Yes." the big man shifted slightly.   
  
  
  
"What kind?" Crawford persisted.  
  
  
  
"Psychiatrist."  
  
  
  
"Oh, just like Clarice Starling."  
  
  
  
"Yeah. Just like Clarice Starling." He stared at Jack Crawford as if daring him to say something.  
  
  
  
"So Barney," Lecter interrupted the tense silence between the two. "Do you want to go over and discuss these with me?"  
  
  
  
"Sure, why ever the hell not? As long as the G-man doesn't open his bill." Jack took justifiable offence at this and did open his mouth as if to say something but quickly shut it as Lecter gave him a look that clearly told him to do so.  
  
  
  
**  
  
  
  
Hours later, Lecter had gained sufficient insight into the past of Clarice Starling. He knew about the lambs, about the orphanage, about her lineage. But what he could still not figure out was what drove her to kill. He escorted Barney out the front door. Jack had left about thirty minutes ago for his home.  
  
  
  
"You know what, Lecter?"  
  
  
  
"No, I don't know what Barney." He smiled slightly.  
  
  
  
"If I were you, I'd drop this case. You don't want Starling inside your head."  
  
  
  
"Why is it that everyone tells me that I would not want Clarice Starling inside my head?"  
  
  
  
"I'm not the only one, then?"  
  
  
  
"No, Crawford told me that same thing."   
  
  
  
Barney smirked. "That's the only smart thing the G-man's said all night."  
  
  
  
"Hold your judgement on him, Barney. He's going through a really rough time. His wife's dying." Barney fell silent for a moment.  
  
  
  
"All right. If you say so, Hannibal. Nice place you got here. But I like the one in Baltimore better."  
  
  
  
"So do I, Barney. So do I," said Lecter as he closed the door and went back into his study. He poured himself a liberal amount of whiskey and grimaced as he took a sip. What the hell was Starling driving him to? He never partook of hard liquor, only wine, and the only reason he kept such things around were because Barney liked them, and Barney was one of the few people he allowed himself a smidgen of affection for. He picked up the cordless phone and rang one of them now.  
  
  
  
"Hello?" a female voice, soft and mellifluous.  
  
  
  
"Hi, sweetheart."   
  
  
  
"Hey, where are you?"  
  
  
  
"I'm in my apartment, just near Quantico."   
  
  
  
"How're you doing?" the female voice said.  
  
  
  
"Not very well. I'm lonesome."  
  
  
  
"Me, too."  
  
  
  
"Horny."   
  
  
  
"Me, too."  
  
  
  
"Tell me about yourself."  
  
  
  
A giggle at the other end of the line. "Are you trying to psychoanalyse me, doctor?"  
  
  
  
"No, madam, I most assuredly am not," Lecter replied with a daffy grin on his face.   
  
  
  
"When are you coming back to Baltimore? I'm not bugging you about coming home, I'm just wondering. I miss you."  
  
  
  
"I miss you, too. I'll be there tomorrow for a case I'm working on."  
  
  
  
"Sounds important."  
  
  
  
"It is."  
  
  
  
"Wanna talk about fucking?" she said, surprising him.  
  
  
  
"I don't think I could stand it. I think, perhaps we had better not do that."  
  
  
  
"Do what?"  
  
  
  
"Talk about fucking."  
  
  
  
"Okay," she acquiesced. "You don't mind if I think about it, though?"  
  
  
  
"Absolutely not."  
  
  
  
The conversation ran far into the night, neither of them getting much sleep.  
  
**  
  
  
  
You know the drill, ladies and gentlemen. There's a nice little box at the bottom where you can write your reviews, suggestion, comments, flames (preferably not), and anything else that comes to mind. However, if you should feel the urge to flame me, please do it via e-mail. To do so otherwise would be *rude*.  
  
Ta,  
  
Tailgunner.  



	4. Quid Pro Quo

Disclaimer: All of the characters found within this story are the property of Thomas Harris. Some of the dialogue has been taken from the novel and the movie The Silence of the Lambs. In order to make this story possible, I have messed with the timeline, ages, and character of certain individuals, and there will be inconsistencies in dates, facts and events (Hey, it's an alternate universe!). So sorry, and remember-if you want to flame me, all you have to do is e-mail! :)  
  
  
  
**  
  
  
  
Starling was sitting against the wall on her cot, facing Lecter when he stopped in front of her cell. Her eyes were closed, but he got the feeling she had been waiting for him. Her left arm was propped up on her knee and her head was tilted back.  
  
  
  
He stood there for a long moment, staring at her, at the delicate curve of her alabaster neck. After being out of the sun for so long, Starling was quite pale, but that only served to enhance her natural beauty. He drank in her presence as he would a fine Batard Montrachet and so was unprepared when she began to speak.   
  
  
  
"Some people say that the only way to remain sane is to go a little crazy, do you agree with that, Agent Lecter?"  
  
  
  
"No. I think I'm reasonably sane."  
  
  
  
She opened her eyes. "Yes, reasonably," a smile, menacing and devilish yet also amused. "What brings you here once again?"  
  
  
  
"I said that I would be back, didn't I?"  
  
  
  
"And so here you are, come to pester me once more. Don't you have better things to do, Agent Lecter? I'm sure this visit is no longer authorised by Section Chief Mapp."  
  
  
  
"How do you think you know that?"  
  
  
  
"Simple. Mapp just isn't the type to keep on beating a dead horse."  
  
  
  
"And am I?"  
  
  
  
"What?"  
  
  
  
"Beating a dead horse? Come on, doctor. You know exactly what I am going to say perhaps even before I say it."  
  
  
  
"Maybe I do. But it's so much more fun hearing you say it. Besides, it helps pass the time."  
  
  
  
"Is that how you get your kicks doctor? By annoying people?"  
  
  
  
"All that's left for me is *fun* Agent Lecter. Nothing else."  
  
  
  
"How sad," he said sarcastically. There it was again, that amused smile. Instead of being angered, Dr. Starling was actually amused!  
  
  
  
"You aren't the least bit afraid of me, are you, Hannibal?"  
  
  
  
"No. Should I?"  
  
  
  
"Perhaps…but let's get on with this, shall we?"  
  
  
  
"Get on with what, doctor?"  
  
  
  
Starling stood up, and walked closer to the glass. She squatted in front of him and motioned for Lecter to do the same. When they sat, face-to-face, she resumed speaking. "This is intended to be a round of quid pro quo, Agent Lecter. Are you game?"  
  
  
  
"Quid pro quo. Something for something. Very well, what do you want, doctor?"  
  
  
  
"In exchange for the perp's name and whereabouts, you tell me things. Not about this case, though. Things about yourself. Quid pro quo. Yes or no? Yes or no, Hannibal."  
  
  
  
"It seem reasonable enough," Lecter said confidently. "I tell you things, you tell me things. All right, quid pro quo it is then, doctor."  
  
  
  
"Oh Agent, you have no idea what I am going to say, do you? Last chance to back out."  
  
  
  
"I will not."  
  
  
  
"Very good Agent Lecter. Shall I get the ball rolling?"   
  
  
  
"By all means…"  
  
  
  
Starling leaned closer to the glass. "What is your worst memory of childhood, Hannibal?"  
  
  
  
He paused, narrowed his eyes and then whispered. "The death of my family…"   
  
  
  
"Ummm," she took a sip out of his pain, and found it exquisite. "And how *did* they die, Hannibal? Tell me, and don't lie or I'll know." he takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself for the onslaught of the gale that would follow. He clenches his fists tightly against his knees, making his knuckles turn white.  
  
  
  
"It was on one of those cold winters…"  
  
  
  
"This was where, specifically?"  
  
  
  
"In Lithuania. It was still part of the USSR. My…father, he was very wealthy. A count, his title dating back to the tenth century. The…people, they didn't like the idea of aristocracy very much. It was the fucking French revolution all over again…. Your turn, doctor." He looked up and saw Starling staring at him.  
  
  
  
"Hand me the case file. Yes, use the food carrier." It was a tight squeeze, and Lecter had to punch the file two or three times before it fit. She flipped through it for a few minutes, going back to reread some pages, comparing others. After around ten minutes of perusing the file, she spoke to him again.   
  
  
  
"Tell me what you see, Agent Lecter. Tell me about Buffalo Bill…"  
  
  
  
"He's a white male... Serial killers tend to hunt within their own ethnic group. And he's not a drifter - he's got his own house, somewhere. Not likely to be an apartment."   
  
  
  
"Very good. Why?"  
  
  
  
"What he does with them takes privacy... He's in his 30's or 40's... he's got real physical strength, combined with an older man's self-control. He's cautious, precise. And he's never impulsive... he'll never stop."  
  
  
  
"What you're saying is that he has got a 'taste' for it, so to speak."  
  
  
  
"Yes. Yes, doctor. That's precisely what I'm saying."   
  
  
  
"Tell me about the victims. Were they large girls?"  
  
  
  
"Yes."  
  
  
  
"Were all of them big around the hips? Roomy?"  
  
  
  
"Yes. They were also missing patches of skin."  
  
  
  
"What else?"  
  
  
  
"All of them were found with an insect inserted in their throats."  
  
  
  
"What kind of insect was it, Agent Lecter? Was it a moth, a butterfly?"  
  
  
  
"It was a moth, doctor. Why do you suppose he places them there?" Starling closed her eyes as if contemplating something.   
  
  
  
"Tell me what happened, Hannibal. Don't leave anything out. What happened to mommy and daddy?"  
  
  
  
"I was six. It had snowed the night before, and the landscape outside of my family's estate was powdered with it, everything was so bright. I and Mischa, we had played the entire day, making snow angels. Bosco was watching the entire time."  
  
  
  
"Who are Mischa and Bosco, Hannibal?"  
  
  
  
"Mischa was my sister. She was four years my junior."  
  
  
  
"And Bosco?"  
  
  
  
"A dog. A very big dog, St. Bernard. My father had given him to me as a puppy. We grew up together."  
  
  
  
"Did they die too?" she was taunting him, but behind the arrogance, there was something else, something he could not quite identify.  
  
  
  
"Mischa did."  
  
  
  
"Your entire family, together?"  
  
  
  
"No. We were having dinner, my family and I. Mischa was laughing, I was re-enacting Chaplin's 'dancing rolls' sequence with my bread and forks."  
  
  
  
"How very quaint. Do go on."  
  
  
  
"No. Quid pro quo, Dr. Starling."  
  
  
  
"Do you know what an imago is, Agent Lecter?"  
  
  
  
"Yes. An insect in its sexually mature stage."  
  
  
  
"What else?"  
  
  
  
"In psychoanalysis it's an unconsciously idealized mental picture, usually of a parent that is formed early in life and retained until the subject's adulthood."  
  
  
  
"Yes…an image of a parent buried in the unconscious from infancy and bound with infantile effect. The word itself comes from the wax busts ancient Romans carried with them in funeral processions. Come on, Agent Lecter. Even Mapp must see some significance in the insect chrysalis."  
  
  
  
"No, nothing except for checking the subscription lists of Entomology magazines for known sex offenders."  
  
  
  
"You were having dinner with your family, it was winter. What happened."  
  
  
  
"The villagers stormed the estate. They dragged us out into the cold and made us watch while they butchered my parents."  
  
  
  
"By 'us' you are referring to yourself and your sister?"  
  
  
  
"Yes. The winter left little game alive, and the year's harvest wasn't very good. The people were angry…and they were starving."  
  
  
  
"The villagers ate your parents, didn't they, Hannibal? They ate them after they killed them…"  
  
  
  
He furrowed his brows. "Yes…"  
  
  
  
"What did you do?"  
  
  
  
"I picked up Mischa and ran off. I didn't care where I was going, all I knew was that I had to get my sister away from there."  
  
  
  
"How far did you get?"  
  
  
  
"About as far as I am going to go until you tell me more of what you know, doctor."  
  
  
  
"The significance of the moth is change. Caterpillar into chrysalis or pupa, and from this into beauty. The insect emerges from its secret changing room into the beautiful imago. Our Billy wants to change. So he's making himself a girl suit out of real girls."  
  
  
  
"Are you telling me he wants some sort of coat, or jacket made from human skin?"   
  
  
  
"Precisely, Agent. He wants a vest with tits on it. Did it ever occur to you, Agent Lecter, that Billy might be a large man?"  
  
  
  
Lecter's expression remained unchanged. "Hence all the large girls…he has to have things that fit…He was one of your patients, wasn't he, doctor?"  
  
  
  
"Maybe…"  
  
  
  
"Tell me his name."  
  
  
  
"And what would you give in exchange for it, Agent?"  
  
  
  
"What do you want?"  
  
  
  
"What would you offer, Agent Lecter? Would you come and visit me from time to time? Maybe sit in my cell and hold my hand? We could have a *lot* of fun."  
  
  
  
"You know that isn't possible, doctor."  
  
  
  
"The first one, the second one, or quite possibly all three?"  
  
  
  
"Actually, the only thing I will not be able to do is sit in your cell and hold your hand. I'd have to be stupid to do that."   
  
  
  
"Really? I'm crushed."  
  
  
  
"Spare me."  
  
  
  
"What happened after you ran, Hannibal?"  
  
  
  
"Don't change the topic, doctor."  
  
  
  
"What happened?" she insisted, her expression turned dangerous but Lecter was unafraid. She seemed to sense this and was pleased. "Tell me," Starling said more nicely.  
  
  
  
"They caught us and placed us in a barn. Other children were there from the neighbouring families."  
  
  
  
"Noble families?"  
  
  
  
"Yes."  
  
  
  
"What did they do with you?"  
  
  
  
"Every few days they would take one or two of us and on those days, we had meat for dinner."  
  
  
  
"You knew what was happening, didn't you?"  
  
  
  
Lecter trembled. He was fighting it, the pain and the rage, and Starling drank it all in. He was magnificent in his agony! "Yes…"   
  
  
  
"Did you partake of your sister, Hannibal?"  
  
  
  
"Yes…" Lecter was staring ahead, his face full of pain, giving in to the memories. Starling found herself unwilling to further push him or antagonize him, but she didn't know why. As if snapping awake from a bad dream, Hannibal calmed, his face resumed its normal stony countenance. He quickly stood up and brushed himself off, not sparing a glance at Starling and she found this curious. As he turned away, she said one word, "Ohio." Lecter stopped.  
  
  
  
"What?"  
  
  
  
Starling looked up at him. "His name's Jame Gumb. Six foot one, brown and blue, 205 lbs. You'll   
find him in Belvedere, Ohio."  
  
  
  
Lecter stood still, unsure of what to say. "Thank you, doctor. I promise to be back."  
  
  
  
"No. I'll thank YOU not to come back, Agent Lecter. It will be much easier on the both of us, don't you think?" Starling stood up and began humming a tune Lecter was semi-familiar with. After living with a woman most of the time for ten years, he easily identified it. Garbage's "Number 1 Crush."  
  
  
  
  
**  
  
  
  
You know the drill, ladies and gentlemen. There's a nice little box at the bottom where you can write your reviews, suggestion, comments, flames (preferably not), and anything else that comes to mind. However, if you should feel the urge to flame me, please do it via e-mail. To do so otherwise would be *rude*.  
  
Ta,  
  
Tailgunner.  



End file.
